Chapter 105 The Unscripted Night
The burgundy velvet of my gown was a heavy, constant reminder of the evening's expectations. It was a rich, blood-dark fabric that seemed to absorb the ambient light of the ballroom, making me feel like a target moving through a room of glittering diamonds. As I stood on the balcony of the Pierre, the fabric felt thick and protective against the biting December air—a stark contrast to the hollow, fragile feeling in my chest.
Beside me, Rhys Vance was a study in stillness. The glow from his phone carved sharp, unfamiliar angles into his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. On that screen was the draft—the formal agreement they had drawn up to keep their personal lives separate once the season ended. In five days, we were supposed to walk away from this arrangement with nothing but a polite handshake and a clean break.
I watched his thumb hover over the screen. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. Down in the ballroom, my parents were likely holding court near the bar, and the Vance's were undoubtedly nearby, checking their watches and wondering why we hadn't rejoined the circle. The velvet felt suddenly too warm, too stifling.
Then, he did it. He didn't just close the app; he sent the document to the trash and emptied it with a clinical, decisive tap.
"Rhys?" My voice was barely a thread of sound, lost to the wind.
"The contract was for a version of us that no longer exists, Ellie," he said. He looked at me then, and the sheer gravity in his gaze made my knees weak. "I’m not interested in the exit strategy anymore."
He stepped toward me, his hand finding my jaw. His skin was burning hot against the winter chill. I looked into his eyes and saw the end of the woman I used to be—the one who was always looking for the nearest escape from the Winslow dinner parties and the Vance's constant scrutiny.
"We have to go back inside," he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "One last dance. One last appearance for our families. And then we're done with the show."
The transition back into the warmth of the ballroom was like stepping into a gilded embrace. We weren't met with cold scrutiny, but with the overwhelming, protective energy of the people who had raised us. Cassandra, my mother, was the first to intercept us. Her face lit up with a soft, genuine radiance as she reached out to smooth the velvet at my shoulder. There was a misty look in her eyes that told me she wasn't seeing a strategic alliance; she was seeing her daughter finally finding the happiness she’d always prayed for.
"You both look wonderful," she whispered, her hand lingering on my cheek. "Just wonderful, Ellie."
Beside her, Arthur was the picture of jovial pride. My stepfather let out a booming laugh that cut through the polite murmur of the gala, clapping Rhys on the back with enough force to make him stumble slightly. "There he is! I told Cassandra you two were just hiding away for a moment of peace. Can't say I blame you!" Arthur’s eyes twinkled with a warmth that felt like a safety net, his joy completely unforced.
Then there was Helena. Since Rhys's father passed, she had leaned into our family more than ever, and seeing her now felt like seeing a second mother. She pulled me into a brief, scented hug—lilies and expensive silk—and squeezed my hands. "You're glowing, darling," she said, her voice thick with an affection that spanned the decades our families had spent intertwined.
However, the "brother wall" was less easy to navigate. Owen, Jace, and Grant stood in a loose semi-circle like a three-man firing squad in tuxedos. Owen was wearing a smile that looked physically painful to maintain. His eyes darted between his best friend and his little sister, his jaw working as he tried—and failed—to look supportive.
"Having fun, Rhys?" Owen asked, his voice an octave too tight. He was clearly struggling with the internal battle of wanting to congratulate his brother-in-arms while simultaneously wanting to put him in a headlock.
Jace and Grant weren't doing much better. Jace stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of grim stoicism that didn't quite mask the dismay in his eyes. Grant was busy inspecting his cufflinks with a sudden, intense fascination, though the way his shoulders were hunched suggested he was one comment away from a protest.
Every time a photographer’s bulb flashed, I leaned into Rhys, no longer because the contract demanded a perfect photo, but because I felt untethered without him. The weight of the velvet trailed behind me, a luxurious burden I was finally starting to feel worthy of.
As we finally stepped out onto the sidewalk, the valet held the door to the town car open. I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me.
Rhys’s phone buzzed—a text from his mother. He stared at the screen, then at the idling car, and finally at me. He must have seen the way I was holding my breath, the way I was clutching the plush fabric of my skirts in my fists.
"Change of plans," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl.
"Rhys? The car..." I started, my heart skipping a beat.
He ignored the driver, turning to the valet with a sharp authority. "We're staying at the Pierre. Send the car away."
Before I could process the shock our parents would feel when they realized we hadn't followed them home, Rhys grabbed my hand. His fingers locked with mine—hard, desperate, and real. He didn't lead me toward the car; he pulled me back toward the gold-trimmed doors of the hotel, heading straight for the private elevator bank.
"Rhys, they're going to be looking for us," I whispered as the elevator doors slid shut, sealing us in a box of mirrors and silence.
"Let them look," he said. He stepped into my space, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor of the lift. He pinned me against the railing, the rough texture of the burgundy velvet gown pressing against my skin as he crowded me. He grabbed a handful of the heavy fabric at my waist, pulling me flush against him. "I’ve spent all night watching you belong to everyone else. Tonight, I’m not sharing."
When the elevator chimed at the penthouse floor, the hallway was silent. He unlocked the suite and pulled me inside, the door slamming shut behind us with a finality that made my pulse roar in my ears.
The suite was dark, the only light coming from the moon reflecting off the snow-covered park below. In the shadows, the burgundy of my dress looked almost black.
He didn't turn on the lights. He just reached for the hidden fastening at the back of the velvet bodice.
"Tomorrow, we deal with the fallout," he whispered against the back of my neck, his hands steady and sure. "But tonight, you’re just mine."